


The Grifter's Demonic Little Helper Job

by sophoklesworld



Series: The Angels and Demons Jobs [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Leverage
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Character Death, Crossover, Graphic Description, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Pre-OT3, Pre-Relationship, canon-typical for Leverage anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28717527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophoklesworld/pseuds/sophoklesworld
Summary: "What do you mean, you 'accidentally tempted someone', angel?"Grifters, she thought.***Or, the Leverage team, Crowley and Aziraphale gang up against anti-vaxxer corporation idiots.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker, Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Angels and Demons Jobs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105223
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	The Grifter's Demonic Little Helper Job

**Author's Note:**

> Today has been productive! I had about a third of this, started about a year ago, and today, I finished it! :)
> 
> Might be very slightly OOC in parts, but I hope it's limited.
> 
> Enjoy!

  
"What do you mean, you ' _accidentally tempted someone_ ', angel?"

Parker was tuned into her surroundings. She always was on a job. Anything that stood out — sounds, colors, smells, anything mildly out of place — filtered through, registered.  
It wasn’t just the British accent (was it British? She’d _never_ gotten the hang of placing accents, despite having listened to Sophie for years) that was out of place. It was also the incredulous tone, mixed with something else she couldn’t discern because emotions and people still weren’t her fortitude.

Most alarming was the 'tempted someone'. Sophie had always described her job as tempting people.

 _Grifters,_ she thought.

Carefully turning her head, pretending to look at a pigeon, she observed the odd pair of men walking past her perch on the park bench.

'Odd' didn’t really cover it and neither did 'walking'.  
The ginger guy — the one that had spoken — was dressed in black and dark grey from head to toe and all but _slithered_ his way down the path. His eyes were covered by sunglasses and the turn of his head gave Parker a good view of something like a snake tattoo descending from his hairline next to his ear. It fit his slithering walk. She decided, Snakes was a fitting nickname.  
The other man was wearing lightly colored and, for lack of a better word, _odd_ clothes which matched his blond hair. She’d call him Blondie. Parker tried to gauge out his reaction and thought he looked embarrassed. Not that embarrassment really made any sense on a grifter. She couldn’t hear his whispered answer.

"Guys, we got company", she murmured into her comm, her eyes fixed on Snakes’ flaming red hair.

It shouldn’t have been possible. The men were at least twenty feet away from her, still, and she hadn’t heard what the blond man had whispered. But the moment she spoke those words, Snakes’ head swiveled around and their eyes met. For the fraction of a second, Parker wondered about the sensation coursing through her — she couldn’t even _see_ the man’s eyes through his sunglasses but she knew she was staring right into them and he into hers. If she were a less perceptive person, she might not have noticed but it felt like her whole being was scanned. Parker had to suppress a shiver.  
Fight and flight waged war in her. Years of flight weighed down by the fight, by an incomprehensible feeling of _defeat_ that it was too late, there was no way she could escape unscathed. And it wasn’t a physical unscathed. She was laid bare, opened up, her whole being torn apart and put together, There was no sense in fleeing. All that was left to do was panic.

But the expected panic didn’t come. She might have quenched it, anyway.

After this split second, her mind switched gears, an unexpectedly successful attempt at distraction. She had a plan and she had contingency plans — she had already implemented contingency D and T (it bugged her, that she couldn’t get the order right like Nate always had). Plan K covered the presence of other grifters. But grifters with unnaturally strong hearing? That made Plan K near impossible.  
The men exchanged a few words, Snakes’ eyes still fixed on her. The other man bit his lip and straightened his vest, eyes flitting between Snakes and her.  
Moving around the puzzle pieces in her head to slot them together anew, Parker watched with a slight trepidation as they started to march (or slither) her way.

Hardison’s voice suddenly filled her ear, asking her about the type of company. She’d put good money on Snakes being able to hear Hardison as well (and she wasn’t taking bets involving her money very lightly), so she kept quiet weighing her options.  
When she didn’t answer, Eliot’s gruff voice came through, "I’m coming."  
The men had covered half the distance by now and Parker started to feel like prey, yet still, flight was outweighed (she hated it, even if her boys had her back) and she still had a job to do.

The blond man, inexplicably, seemed somewhat friendlier, less dangerous in his stalk, but judging by the way he stayed a foot or so behind Snakes, she didn’t think he had (or wanted) any say in what was going to happen to her next.

For a moment, she wondered if she should try to leave, give in to flight rearing its head like a dragon. Curiosity — of all the things — won, despite herself, despite her nature, so she stayed put and made a call.  
_Maybe these guys could be used as an asset,_ a voice sounding distinctly like Nate whispered into her ear, even as another part screamed danger. But what about their lives wasn’t build upon danger.

"No need, Eliot. I’ll handle this."  
She didn’t bother to whisper, thinking any efforts to hide her conversation would be futile.

The men stopped in front of her.  
She didn’t believe in luck, yet here she was, thinking herself lucky that she was perched on the back of the bench as otherwise the men would have towered over her.

She raised an eyebrow, not taking her eyes off Snakes, because he seemed to be the more imminent danger. From the periphery of her vision, she saw Blondie cock his head and practically felt his stare boring into her soul. It was a bit different from Snakes’ stare but she still didn’t appreciate it. Flight wasn’t in the cards, and 'scared’ was not an emotion Parker entertained very often. Distantly, she realized she should probably be more freaked out than just a little ticked off, though.

She didn’t want to be the first to speak, didn’t plan on giving them anything, but she just couldn’t help it.  
"Could you not?", she turned to Blondie, "It feels like a waterfall pushing through me and it tickles", and, after a moment’s contemplation, added, "I’ve stabbed people for less." (If you asked her, later, why she added that, she wouldn’t be able to answer. In that moment though, it had felt oddly exhilarating to step on Danger’s toes.)

The sensation suddenly stopped and Blondie’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging open. He clasped his hands together. Snakes’ eyebrows rose. Through the comm, Parker could hear Eliot’s sharp inhale.

"You’re human", Snakes said, like that was a surprise. Parker snorted.  
"You shouldn’t be able to feel that", he continued when she didn’t say anything.  
"You shouldn’t be able to _do_ that", she countered. Ridiculously, she wondered if they were grifters at all.

Blondie turned to Snakes. "Crowley, what in all Heaven is going on?"

Snakes — Crowley, apparently — spared him a glance, his hand momentarily touching Blondie’s. He murmured, "I don’t know, not even that clever Ms Devereaux seemed to feel it, and she was definitely close. This is a new occurrence. _Fascinating_."  
Addressing Parker, he added, "Oh, aren’t you a clever one."

Suddenly, all the alarm bells in Parker’s head started to blare (how they hadn’t before, she didn’t know).  
"You know Sophie?", she couldn’t help but ask. 

Snakes’ mouth opened and closed so fast, Parker almost thought she had imagined it. It was like she momentarily caught him off guard, by surprise. (Stepping on Danger’s toes. Exhilarating. Suppress your smirk, Parker, alarm bells are still ringing.) Then, his smile turned predatory even as his eyebrows rose again. (Exhilarating, like jumping off a roof, like breaking into the Louvre. Something never occurred with humans before.)

"Who is 'Sophie’?", Blondie asked. Parker wondered if that was curiosity on his face or maybe jealousy (it looked oddly like a pout, something akin to Hardison’s when Eliot hid away all of his Orange Soda) before forcing herself back into the real world, the current situation.  
"Oh", Snakes drawled, lifting his hand to his sunglasses and pulling them down just a bit to look at Parker over the rim.

Her heart skipped a beat. If she were standing, her knees might have given out from under her. As it was, her hands gripped the park bench painfully tight. Parker couldn’t have chosen a better name for Snakes because his eyes were blazing like fire with slits for pupils.

She could barely keep up with what he told Blondie in her shock, even as he pushed the glasses back up his nose.

"– a grifter I met a few decades ago in London. She was good but a little demonic", he wiggled his fingers in the air, " _flair_ couldn’t hurt with her temptations. I wonder if it’s part of the ineffable plan that her and this lady here know each other."

 _Demonic_. Parker’s mind latched onto the word, drowning out Blondie’s affronted comment. If she hadn’t seen Crowley’s eyes and felt this sensation, she would’ve had a harder time to take him seriously. But she _had_ experienced it, and she could always adjust to new concepts easily (even though, admittedly, usually, space, time, calculated weight and speed did not warp, did not try to expand and fall in on itself to try to adjust to something quite so close to magic. Usually, math equations were a comfort, never disturbed, providing an understanding, baseline and safety net for the world around her).

 _"Girl!"_  
Parker started at Hardison’s urgent voice. _"He knows Sophie?"_

Eliot almost talked over him, "Talk to us, Parker."

For a second longer, Parker regarded the people (demons?) in front of her. Alarms went off in her head, yes. But this didn’t scream 'immediate danger', despite the fact that they supposedly were otherworldly beings. Plus, Sophie seemed to know Snakes. This felt more like a puzzle, a thing she wanted to solve. Just like she always wanted to find a way around Sterling. And Hardison and Eliot would want to solve it in their own way, she knew.   
Despite her better judgement. Maybe because of it.

Snakes nodded at her comm.

She sighed, "Everything’s okay, Hardison. Eliot, stay put. We have a gig to run. They’re not here to interfere." At the last part, she raised an eyebrow at Snakes, a quiet challenge (Danger’s toes, but she’s not in trouble yet). Crowley shook his head.

"We’ll meet at the brewpub later. I’m bringing guests. I think we should have a conversation in private." ( _Guests_ , what a statement for something quite so … different. Invaders, trouble, _danger_ were better terms.)

There was a rush of complaints from Hardison but Parker knew that he was analyzing the security camera footage surrounding her and the unplanned company, already searching databases for facial recognition of the men in front of her.

"Eliot?", she prompted when he stayed suspiciously quiet.  
"Sorry, staying put is not an option", he replied.

From right behind her.

She turned her head.

Eliot’s eyes were hard and his arms crossed over his chest. Despite his shortness, and despite standing a step or two behind Parker, she knew there was no doubt to the others that he would protect her. Feeling herself relax minutely at this unexpected — she should’ve expected it, really — backup, she couldn’t help but smile at Eliot. Flight, despite being outweighed, lost, overcome already, now simmered down, a dragon laying down to sleep.

Eliot’s eyes flickered over to her, a silent question. If they touched her, hurt her — she had asked Blondie not to do his scanning thing, and she didn’t know what Eliot and Hardison had made of that statement. She nodded her reassurance.

Turning back to the men, she introduced, "I’m Parker, this is Eliot Spencer, these are — Crowley?", the man in question nodded, "and —"  
"Oh, I am Aziraphale", the man answered. Smiling brilliantly, Aziraphale extended his hand to both of them. Surprised, Parker shook it (the dragon twitched, but she ignored it) before Eliot did the same. There were no such pleasantries from Crowley but he had an amused smirk playing on his lips ( _Danger’s toes, ready to kick back,_ a voice whispered in the back of Parker’s head).

Parker was sure, he 'scanned' Eliot as well, in that moment. There wasn’t anything she could do about it, and it seemed like Eliot didn’t even feel it, so she decided to let it slide for now despite her discomfort.

A silence spread over them and even Parker felt the awkwardness of it. She was unsure of what to do about it. Her eyes fell on Eliot, who was still looking at the other men, calculating and suspicious, and realized the window for getting to their target today just closed.

Shaking her head and sighing, Parker gave Eliot a flat stare, "I guess we can postpone the job for a day."  
Jumping up from the bench, she said, "Let’s go. Hardison, can you close up the pub?"

She turned around, starting the ten minute walk home, considering for a moment if it was a smart idea to bring those people into their home but at the same time being certain they already knew where the team lived.

"Ah yes", Aziraphale clasped his hands together and catching up to her. "You said something about a brewpub? Are you brewing your own beer?"

He seemed thrilled at the idea. A quick glance over her shoulder showed Parker that Crowley rolled his eyes with a fond smile and fell into step behind them, Eliot following suit. She figured, if he had a problem with taking these people home, he would have said something. It eased the tension at her core slightly.

"Yeah, it’s Hardison’s brewpub. You’ll meet him there", Parker answered, motioning to the comm in her ear.

Next to her, Aziraphale chattered away but Parker only half-listened. Her mind was still caught up on the demon-part, trying to make sense of what she’d expect demons to look like and what the people next to her actually looked like, talked like. How such a mundane conversation was possible, while her brain still worked to reconcile math, space, the universe with _magic_ , she didn’t know. Demons weren’t a problem to understand. Demons meant monsters. Monsters were real. She’s met enough of them. But magic. Magic was exciting, like Santa Clause. Potential of something good. Hope. A kind of hope she didn’t entertain very lightly (and yet she did, believing was still so easy, especially if it was things that would or could never be proved wrong, like Santa Clause’s existence). Still, her brain could understand, comprehend and accept the idea.

"I can’t find any records of either of them, Parker", Hardison’s voice trickled through the comm. "Mr. 19th century and Sunglasses aren’t in the system. No traveling documentation of them coming here from the UK or anywhere else. No planes, no ships. And I’m not talking fake ID either. Just nothing. I’m worried, baby-girl. Something’s not right."

"Hardison", Parker interrupted. He didn’t know what she knew, hadn’t put together the pieces the way she had. "They can hear every word you say over the comm. But there’s nothing to worry about at the moment. Trust me?" She looked over her shoulder at Crowley with a tight smile and saw him grin back. It wasn’t as disconcerting as she would expect. He wasn’t offended, at least, Danger’s toes out of reach (she hoped his eyes weren’t telling a different story).

Grumbling petulantly, Hardison answered, "Alright. But they’re only allowed in the front room of the pub!"

Parker snorted and didn’t have to turn again to know Eliot was rolling his eyes. Thankfully, Hardison stayed silent.

She couldn’t help but mull over what Hardison had said. If they really were demons, then she’d put money on the First _and_ Second David that they didn’t actually need to travel via human transportation. 'Mr. 19th century' actually explained Aziraphale’s choice of clothes. They weren’t odd so much as they were outdated. It really was like he was cut out of an old portrait and stumbled right into the future. The thief in her wondered, if his clothes were legitimately old, valuable.

 _Aziraphale_ , Parker thought. Didn’t sound very demonic. With a start, she thought of Crowley having called him 'angel', earlier. But he couldn’t have meant that literally, right? Not because Parker couldn’t adjust her mind to the idea of angels as she did to demons. She’s met angels, too, the opposite of monster, rare as they were (case in point: Hardison and Eliot). But because angels and demons were hereditary enemies. As far as she knew. She never did a lot of religious reading. Or any reading, really. She guessed she had to keep an eye out, try to be as empathic as Hardison when it came to understanding Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. And, considering the demonic part again. She’d have to make sure no one accidentally made any deals or signed any contracts (she watched that Not-Natural show once, she knew how those things went. Kiss and seal the deal). Not that her boys weren’t smart enough not to fall for any foul play (it’s what they did, too, after all. Temptation, bargain, downfall).

Shaking her head minutely, she fully focused her attention back on Aziraphale. 

* * *

Eliot didn’t have any illusions as to who these people were. Even if Sophie hadn’t given him their names, he’s been around, he knew of the kind of people that lurked in the shadows and whispered things into your ears. More temptations and magic than grifts.  
Admittedly, Aziraphale in his 19th century attire and his obsolete speech pattern made him look unthreatening and not very demonic at all.

He remembered that Sophie had said one of them, the one she hadn’t met personally, 'operated on the light spectrum'. Eliot wasn’t sure exactly _what_ that meant but it vaguely seemed to exclude demonic. There was no doubt Aziraphale held power, though. It was visible in the way he carried himself. But he seemed to be more quietly reasonable, less impulsive, than Crowley, which made Eliot’s heart just that much lighter at the idea of inviting two very powerful entities into their home.

He had the feeling, Parker was not completely unaware of who these people were. He’d heard her statement of how it had felt like a waterfall and he strongly suspected she meant the way they’ve stared at Eliot, and probably her, before. At least he didn’t have to worry too much, knowing she’d be careful. Still, he didn’t like it.

As stilted as their initial greeting was with the knowledge of danger lacing every carefully chosen word, the current conversation, mostly kept up by Aziraphale, was surprisingly comfortable. 

Strolling down the street next to Parker, the man was animatedly telling a story about their (Eliot suspected 'their' meant Crowley and his) godsons.  
A tale about two eleven year old boys meeting for the first time. Eliot had to admit it was a sweet and funny story, even if he didn’t believe that demons would actually have godchildren. That was up until Aziraphale launched into a recap on how the boys planned on taking over the world, which made Eliot fear for the future of said world if they actually _had_ godsons.   
When Aziraphale recounted a particularly dangerous part, Crowley smirked like a proud dad of mischief. Eliot tried not to think about it too hard but didn’t ignore the undercurrent of danger either.

Crowley was pretty much _sauntering_ next to Eliot and it bugged him, if he was honest. He couldn’t even say if he envied the man or just plainly wanted to imagine someone else’s hips doing _that. Or two someones’_ , his traitorous brain supplied. Which he shouldn’t think about right now, at all, considering those people could probably see into his head. (He usually was so much better at blanking out those thought in compromising situations, why didn’t it work, now.)

Eliot had the feeling Aziraphale did something to make them relax and he didn’t like it. To him it felt like being weighed down felt to Parker. He couldn’t focus properly, wasn’t aware of his surroundings the way he should be (was stuck in his own head, unbidden thoughts weaving through him, warming him).  
Before he found the courage and energy to complain, though, they arrived at the brewpub.

"This is us", Parker announced, opening the door and skipping up ahead to greet Hardison who was pacing behind the window front.

Before Aziraphale and Crowley could step over the threshold, Eliot’s arm shot out and blocked their way.  
He wasn’t a brave man. He was a man on a mission, a man doing what needed to be done. That was his essence. And what needed to be done was _protect_.

"You will not try to make deals. You’re here as guests and we are going to honor that as long as you do, too. No deals. No miracles or magic or whatever you wanna call it. No _temptations_ ", Eliot ordered, "One wrong look, one word — If I even suspect foul, you will find yourself discorporated in the very least. So", Eliot smiled at the irony, "don’t tempt me."

The men shared a look and then nodded. It felt too easy, but Eliot wasn’t stupid. Precautions were half of his job. Sophie gave these men the benefit of a doubt. He could revoke that, easily.

Aziraphale actually appeared mildly affronted, insulted even, that someone would think that of him. Still, he seemed equally knowing over the chances of Crowley attempting just that. Eliot tried not to think about that just yet. But he had to admit, Sophie really had done a good job describing them to Eliot without _actually_ describing them. 

Satisfied (for now), Eliot gave a slight nod, and turned around to enter the pub, exposing his back to the strangers. He hated it, but he’d give them at least a little room to prove they didn’t mean any harm. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t see them in the mirror behind the bar.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Parker raising an eyebrow at him in slight amusement. Her lack of surprise confirmed Eliot’s suspicions that she understood who these people were. She’d risen to greet the danger, too, which Eliot assumed was the reason for her amusement.

His gaze fell on Hardison next to Parker.  
He looked anxious, worried. Questions were tumbling over in Hardison’s eyes. Eliot had never figured out how Hardison did that but it worked for him and Eliot loved to get lost in there. And he almost did but an amused snort from behind him brought him back to the present.

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Crowley smirking at him. Feeling called out and suddenly annoyed, Eliot huffed and stomped off to the kitchen to do what he did best (next to punching people): Cooking for his guests. It certainly wasn’t a way to escape before he would have to answer incredibly uncomfortable questions, no matter what Crowley’s snigger at his retreating back seemed to imply.

Starting to pull out bowls and salad, he heard Parker introduce the two men to Hardison and felt slightly guilty for leaving them to their own devices, without protection (not completely without protection, he reminded himself. With precautions.). But he knew, Parker was more than capable. He tried not to think about the fact that, if they really wanted to hurt his team, he’d stand no chance to protect them, despite his threats and precautions. All he had was hope and faith (in who or what, he didn’t know, given their current _guests_ ). Sophie had survived their encounters (unscathed?), though. So he hoped, they would, too.

* * *

"This stew is incredible, my dear Mr. Spencer", Aziraphale flattered.

Hardison assumed Crowley gave the other man an eye roll by the movement of his head — his eyes were still hidden behind sunglasses — accompanied by a fond smile.

He’d been watching the blond man a lot, while Aziraphale ate and without touching the food himself. Bit kinky, Hardison thought. Crowley threw him a flat stare — his face emotive enough to interpret even with the sunglasses — as if he heard Hardison’s thought. It made Hardison feel on edge.  
He didn’t know what exactly was up with those two, but Parker and Eliot had been choosing their words more carefully than usual and both of them were tense. He could feel it, where Parker was pressed into his side, and Eliot’s knee knocked into his, from where he sat at the head of the table.

Still, Eliot’s smile was sincere, when he answered, "Thank you. It was my Dad’s. He taught me just a few months ago."

Hardison stared at Eliot in surprise, his surroundings momentarily forgotten. Eliot’s eyes were dancing with genuine happiness which made Hardison’s heart bloom in wonder and excitement. There was a story there, which he would love to hear but couldn’t ask for in front of strangers. Suddenly, he wanted to get rid of said strangers as soon as possible.

Eliot had made for the kitchen soon after entering the brewpub even though the tension had been rolling off of both Eliot and Parker, a palpable current in the air. While Hardison was left with Parker to be introduced to their — honestly weird — guests, Eliot had made fast work on the food, preparing a large salad and reheating the stew he had cooked this morning.

Hardison had been worried, and he knew he hadn’t successfully hidden that from anyone. This wasn’t just a standard job, after all. This wasn’t an inconvenience, it was a thorn in his eye, unexpected as it was unknown. His screening, his attempts at gathering info had failed, not even the MI6 had provided helpful information. And Parker had asked him to _trust her_. That wasn’t something she said. Ever. (Even though, yes, he trusted her and he trusted Eliot. He didn’t know when that became the norm but it was the norm even though neither acknowledged that.)

And Hardison had tried his best to trust her, in this, too. It wasn’t easy, but Aziraphale in his old-fashioned clothing, had managed to distract Hardison, asking questions about the beer brewing process (which he was well-equipped to answer properly, thank you very much, Eliot), until Eliot came back with the food.

"So", Parker started, snapping Hardison’s attention back to the present, her eyes fixed on Crowley. "You’re a demon."

Hardison choked on a spoonful of stew, his brain short-circuiting like never before.

Eliot thumbed Hardison on the back dutifully, throwing Parker an annoyed look. She barely shrugged, her attention back on Crowley in an instant.

"Yes." Crowley’s voice was as matter-of-factly as Parker’s had been.

"But he isn’t", she stated.

"No", Aziraphale smiled.

"You’re an angel." It wasn’t a question. Parker seemed very sure of herself.

Eliot stayed quiet as Aziraphale nodded and his smile broadened, "That is one word for it, yes."

Hardison’s brain was still offline. Something got connected in the wrong way after the short-circuit, he’s sure of it — synapses not where they’re supposed to be. Because he’s certain he just heard these men agree to being a demon and an angel. And that just didn’t make sense.

"What?" Hardison’s mind was reeling. Eliot and Parker just seemed to take this at face-value and that just didn’t make sense, either. Wasn’t right.

"What brings you to Portland?", Eliot asked, his hand on Hardison’s shoulder still, otherwise completely ignoring Hardison and the fact that these people were, apparently, _not human._

"What.", Hardison proceeded, like a broken record.

"Actually, heavenly business and the ineffable plan, we-"

"No no no! Back up! What the hell?", Hardison interrupted. Crowley snorted.

"They’re an angel and a demon", Parker helpfully explained.

"Right", Hardison was still stumped.  
This didn’t make sense. Not necessarily because he didn’t believe in aliens or god or anything (different kind of belief for the first and second). But because — well he went looking, especially after Eliot sometimes had made some off-hand statements when Alec talked about aliens being real, which had always left him kinda off-kilter, because really, Eliot was not supposed to agree to that stuff. But like, that was _aliens_. Hardison could get behind _aliens_ being real. But god? God —religion — was about belief, hope, resurgence. About the unadulterated, steadfast prevailing of good, of love. Not about being _real_.

This had to be a joke. Right! A joke!

"Is this some elaborate joke, you’re pulling on me? Who’s idea was it? Yours, right Parker?"

Parker just looked at him. "We’re not joking."

Everyone stayed silent for a beat too long. Any second now, any second Parker would burst into laughter, Hardison was sure of it.

But she didn’t.

Instead, Crowley said, "They’re not."

Dread settled into Hardison’s stomach and he turned his head ever so slowly back to Crowley. The ginger pulled off his sunglasses, leaving Hardison utterly shocked. His stomach plummeted and he grappled to hold on to the most likely, most believable truth for just a second longer.

"You’re wearing contacts", Hardison tried to explain away the snake-like pupils, even though he had the horrible feeling that they really, really weren’t joking.

* * *

Hardison still wasn’t completely behind the concept of angels and demons apparently being A Thing.

He was nursing his third beer, when he was interrupted in his thoughts by an excited Parker. The questions left him even more unsettled.

"Ohhh, do you actually have wings? Can you fly?? Can I fly _with_ you?"

"No, babe, pl-", Hardison started, but the excited look in Parker’s eyes shut him up. She looked like a puppy about to go for her first walk. As much as he hated the thought of her being dragged around by winged assholes, as little as he trusted those two British-tongued entities, he couldn’t begrudge her fun.

"Of course, we can fly. I will _not_ show you my wings, and we’ll see about taking you flying", Crowley ticked off his fingers. At least he wasn’t offended.

Parker hummed, then changed the topic, much to Hardison’s relief.

"You mentioned a temptation earlier", Parker addressed Aziraphale.

"Oh, yes, angel, I’d love to hear that story, too", Crowley grinned sharply at the other man.

"Um. You see." He stammered. An angel that stumbled over his words. It was endearing, and Hardison was momentarily thrown off by the thought but he supposed he would have to deal with this, either way.

"Well, you remember how you liked that ice cream parlor in Laurelhurst Park?"

Crowley nodded, trying to hide a smile. "I distinctly remember _you_ being the one to indulge. But I know the place you mean."

"Hush, dear, I am trying to explain. As I said, I was at that ice cream parlor and wanted to get ice cream for the both of us. He was rude, that man", Aziraphale clucked his tongue. "Something about fitness. I might’ve suggested that his own fitness could stand a few additional calories."

It was silent for a beat. Hardison didn’t know what exactly that statement meant, even though a mental image of a faceless man stuffing his face with ice cream conjured itself up.

Crowley barely manage to keep his laughter out of his voice, "You made him eat all the ice cream?"

Aziraphale looked abashed and blushed at the noise of Crowley’s laughter.

"Yes", he said quietly and after a moment joined in the laughter that had erupted around the table.

* * *

"But that’s enough about us, for now. I can see my dear Crowley is close to discorporation to ask you a question", Aziraphale mildly shifted the topic after a few more minutes of ranting about ice cream parlor idiots on Crowley and Parker’s parts.

Parker looked at Crowley expectantly.

"Yeah", he began excitedly, "What I’d like to know is what on earth _you_ are doing on the shady side of things but still manage to be in Heaven’s graces?"

"Crowley", Aziraphale admonished him with a light clap on the arm and a disproportionately scandalized stare. "Don’t be rude!"

"What? You knew I was gonna ask."

Aziraphale shook his head but turned to look back at Parker when she said "It’s all right! We’re Robin Hood!"

Hardison snorted next to her. "We watched that movie last week and it’s been her favorite analogy since", he explained, "We do pick up where the law leaves off. We’re helping those who can’t fend for themselves."

"Oh, that is lovely. In a way, we do that, too, don’t we, Crowley dear?"

With a scoff barely hiding his smile, Crowley answered, "I would argue they call it mutiny, angel. So, what were we interrupting today?"

Parker saw Eliot’s grip tighten around his spoon where he sat at the head of the table. She knew it was a sign that he wasn’t happy about the prospect of sharing that information. Without these qualms herself (Danger’s toes, but maybe the kicking could be redirected), though, she explained how they stumbled over their client.

"Well, this man came in a week ago. He’s working for this pharmaceutical company and recently found out that the CEO is some weird anti-vaxxer flat-earther money-sick bastard."

She felt Hardison’s eyes flicker to her at her colorful expression, knowing he caught her repeating his own words.

"Turns out, in his greed for money, he manufactured and sold faulty vaccines or some kind of replacements. Hardison knows the science better than me. But he ordered some kind of cheap ingredients that mess up all the science behind vaccines, and now there’s a whole lot of kids running risk of getting sick."

She knew she pouted, she knew there was anger in her eyes. But she couldn’t help it. It was _kids_. You don’t mess with kids and get away with it. If she had to enforce that herself, she would.

Crowley and Aziraphale seemed to mull that over.

Hardison, though, was apparently still stuck on some other part of the conversation.  
"Wait, now that angels and demons are apparently a thing. The whole big bang did still happen, didn’t it? Earth is round, dinosaurs existed?", his voice grew shriller with each word.

"Don’t be daft, of course it did." Crowley looked at Hardison with something in his eyes that implied Sherlock’s 'you lower the IQ of the whole street' insult which was totally uncalled for in Parker’s opinion. Then he asked with distaste, "Flat Earthers? Really?"

"Crowley!"

"Ngk, what?! I _made_ this ball of water and plants and these bloody idiots inhabiting it don’t even try to appreciate it. And if you’re forgetting we basically just _saved_ everyone on this planet? You got discorporated! And for this? I take that personally!", he grumbled.

Parker perked up at that well of information, curious like a cat, as Eliot would say. She restrained herself though, for now.

"I think it’s sad, really", Hardison started, very matter-of-factly, considering Parker still saw the freakout over the clashing of religion and science in his eyes.  
"And stupid", his voice laced with annoyance, "and so annoying. Like, you can’t even properly tell them off. You can’t discuss with or educate them. I have half the mind, sending Eliot after them."

Crowley hummed, then turned back to Parker, his eyes hardening. "Kids, you say?"

Parker nodded, grimly, grateful that he caught on to the point of this whole con.

"We’ll help you." Crowley’s voice was certain, eyes a flash of fire. "Those bloody wankers will not know what hit them."

"Crowley, dear boy, maybe we shouldn’t interfere", Aziraphale tried to intervene, but Parker could see the fire blazing in Crowley’s eyes. She knew it was reflected in her eyes. There was no way back from the edge.

"Zira, they’re _hurting kids_!", Crowley’s voice wasn’t petulant, but something similar, underneath the fire, the heat, then anger. Something that Parker had trouble defining. 

But when Crowley looked at Aziraphale, just kept looking, Aziraphale faltered and with a sigh said, "Fine", Parker thought maybe Crowley had begged, plead, prayed to the angel to help him.

"If", Aziraphale added, "they want us to help."

Help _them_.

Parker’s heart fluttered in excitement. Maybe they could do a bit more this time around than just plain damage control. Maybe they could _prevent_ , maybe they could _correct_.

"Yes!", she said, leaving no room for argument on either side.

For the first time, Eliot buds into the conversation.   
"I’ve been thinking about beating them at their own game."

"Who?", Parker asked, at the seemingly random interjection.

"Anti-vaxxers."

"How?" Hardison, this time.

"Well, they’re believing in conspiracies — I am not putting you in the same pot as the peas, Hardison, don’t look so affronted. Still the smartest man I know.

"My _point_ is", Eliot tried to gloss over the blush he was nursing, even Parker could see that, "They believe in conspiracies. Why not twist and morph the conspiracies so that they start to believe vaccination is the lesser evil?"

"Oh!", Parker gasped, grasping onto the concept, easily shifting their plans around again in her head, K to F, M to C, B to D. Density (ρ) = mass(m)/volume(V). Number of people pressed into their plan, plan fitting tighter around them, despite increasing the bounds of the whole thing. Density shifting, increasing and decreasing, until the plasticity of vacuum expanding through collapsing air is all that’s left.  
"Hardison, you can do that by leaving tidbits in those forum-communities that you showed me", she continued before turning to Crowley.  
"He still plays with his imaginary dwarf and elf people, that’s like a community, right? So he understands these people, he always understands everyone. And he’s very good at explaining. And sometimes also good at grifting."

"You hurt me, babe", came the snorted retort.

"We’ll just try to at least seed some doubt in their faith. _Chaos for the sake of chaos must be encouraged_." Parker shrugged.

Hardison leaned over and kissed her temple. "I love you, babygirl. I’m gonna try my best but I don’t think this analogy works as well as you think it does. Though, that was a beautifully twisted Umbridge quote. Chapeau."

Crowley pointed at her. "You. I like you. Almost as much as I like chaos."

Parker lit up, "You like me enough to take me flying?"

The grin that spread on Crowley’s face was predatory but Parker hasn’t been any less bothered by his grins all day.

"Maybe." 

Good enough for now. She’d keep bugging him, and pretend she didn’t see her boys’ dismayed looks.

" _I have great belief in the fact that whenever there is chaos, it creates wonderful thinking. I consider chaos a gift_ ", Crowley quoted.

Aziraphale made a soft noise, almost like a snort. "Septima Poinsette Clark. You certainly do have a knack for the chaos. _The battlefield is a scene of constant chaos. The winner will be the one who controls that chaos, both his own and the enemies_."

"Bonaparte. Napoleon Bonaparte", Eliot stated.

"Accurate, Mr. Spencer", Aziraphale smiled.

"Back to the real chaos now, though!", Crowley cut in. "Chaos where chaos is due. Conspiracy theories, oh how I love to fuel those."

"It really is a great idea, babe! Random conspiracies for random forums. This is gonna be _fun_!" Hardison clapped his hands together.

"But that doesn’t necessarily help us with the company and CEO", Parker interrupted the stream of ideas that would no doubt start to fall out of Hardison’s mouth (in another situation she might’ve kissed him, to stop the words, but there’s a place and time and this was neither). She brought her own thoughts back to safer, more appropriate parts of the con.

Parker turned back to look at Crowley, glint in her eyes, "You’ve got an idea, Snake Danger?"

Crowley grinned again. This time, it sent a shiver down her spine because the sheer power that man-shaped entity possessed shone through like the sun through the cracks of heavy clouds. It was as exhilarating as it was dangerous, the threat of an untimely ending for anyone that comes too close, a fall in burning flames, imminent, inevitable, as it was for Icarus (Danger’s toes, Danger’s toes, maybe don’t step on Danger’s toes.)

"Oh, I have an idea indeed", Crowley says, threat audible in his voice. This time, Parker’s shiver was excited anticipation, and certainty hit her: The threat wasn’t coming for her, the Danger’s kick was diverted, the children would be protected.

* * *

The plan was this:

"Parker lifts ID’s from high-ranking administrators, preferably H&R, tonight when they’re leaving the building."  
Hardison explained with the same low voice he always had. It wasn’t monotone, it was captivating, easily understood, clear.

> Parker did exactly that, easily stumbling while passing by the personal assistant of one slimy CEO in front of the company’s gates. Getting helped back up, slipping her hand along the ID, aptly flicking it away, out of sight.
> 
> *
> 
> Parker did exactly that, in the parking garage, a high-ranking administrative person she did not care to learn the name of.  
>  Two IDs, all office doors unlocked.

"Tonight, Parker and Aziraphale will infiltrate the building. Take everything you can from H&R, see if you can find paper copies. Eliot, you go along as the muscle. There’s guards, at least eight rotating constantly, and three stationary on every floor."

> Parker and Aziraphale entered the building with a fuss. Distraction. An 'I-belong-here' attitude and they’re set. The guards at the entrance couldn’t care less, after the ID’s granted them access.
> 
> *
> 
> A distraction, and Eliot slipping in through a backdoor, the lock anything but a problem, after Parker had picked it. The alarm of an emergency exit being opened, muted, rendered ineffective in the wake of Hardison’s digital prowess.
> 
> *
> 
> The three people went to the upper floors, guards not caring, their arrival having been communicated by the front desk security people. It was a joke. Easy. Way too easy.

"Crowley and I will go to the manufacturing site, wreck havoc."

> In all honesty, Crowley hadn’t needed Hardison’s help. Or so he thought. That was, until the alarm started blaring.
> 
> *
> 
> In all honestly, Hardison hadn’t needed Crowley’s help. He could’ve taken down the base all by himself. Or so he thought. That was, until the guards came running.
> 
> *
> 
> The alarm shut off, too late though, authorities were on their way.
> 
> *
> 
> The people ran for Hardison, and there wasn’t a way for him to stop them. Luckily no guns.
> 
> *
> 
> But fists. He didn’t enjoy fists.
> 
> *
> 
> The alarm, silent as it was now, left behind a ringing in Crowley’s ears.
> 
> *
> 
> The men ran for Hardison and he smirked.
> 
> *
> 
> The ringing didn’t stop. Crowley smirked.
> 
> *
> 
> One man suddenly plowed to the left, tackling another, then another, then the last in a twisted, tangled mess, to the floor.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley stood to the side, curses of four dizzy, confused, concussed men drowning out the ringing silence. His hand still raised, his finger still connected from the snap.
> 
> *
> 
> Hardison blinked, turned his head to the left, returned the demonic smirk with one of his own, as the fire-eyed man let his hand fall to his side.

"We will be a distraction. I will do some — and I hate to even say it — bad hacking, making sure the guards of the manufacturing facility catch on. The CEO should be alerted right away. If they get the authorities involved, they’re stupider than I think. The CEO, though, may come with weapon-power."

> Indeed he did. Raining down upon Hardison’s hideout between two laminar flow hoods, the security guards started their fire.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley saw the CEO, standing right behind his men. Giving that one, fateful order.
> 
> *
> 
> It wasn’t the first time that Hardison wasn’t subjected to cross fire or direct gun fire, for that matter. It would’t be the last, either. He would never grow fond of it, though.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley hadn’t been been in a war for a while. Why this felt like war, he didn’t know. If anything, it was worse. It wasn’t constitution versus disorganization, law versus transgression, oppression versus democracy. It wasn’t justice. It was greed. Like any other war, really. Maybe, this was War’s doing, maybe Pollution’s. Maybe all of the Horsemen were involved. But deep down, Crowley knew the truth. He was a demon, but even he knew he wasn’t as much of a monster as some humans could be, contaminated by the seven deadly sins as they could be. Worse, though, he knew, humans shaped other humans. Neglect formed many to what they were. Representing dark, awful shadows that followed them around from their first days of life. Still, decisions and choices could be made. One did not have to turn to the dark, be swallowed up by the shadows, the demon’s voice in one’s head so completely. He was a demon, he knew what he was talking about. It was almost like he could see Hastur creeping being the CEO. He knew it wasn’t Hastur, but the disgust he felt was similar as the one for Hastur. But choices. Oh, the choices. He hated when humans made the wrong choices. Even though, arguably, it made his own choice easier.
> 
> *
> 
> Moreau had been an asshole, ruthless and evil. Calculated, cold. A bargaining, exploiting man that even yakuza didn’t cross (right now, Hardison wondered if Moreau had been a demon). Hardison didn’t know where to place this CEO. Probably somewhere between a fake-president’s narcissism and an ex-dictator’s pathological lunacy. Ruthless as may be, there wasn’t anything calculated about him, now. The craziness could be felt from behind a metal-box.
> 
> *
> 
> It was easy. Too easy, to make the men turn against each other. They were like marionettes and he was their puppeteer. He watch as they slowly turned towards their boss, horror in their eyes, shooting at the head, gasps and fear in their eyes as the CEO crumbles. Then, pointing guns at each other, one after the other, a squelching sound as their heads are hit, and soft thuds as more bodies hit the ground.  
>  *
> 
> "What."
> 
> *
> 
> "Relax", Crowley rolled his eyes, calm as ever, even a slight grin tugging at his lips.
> 
> *
> 
> _Relax,_ Hardison thinks incredulously, but the horror, the panic, doesn’t quite reach his heart, as he looks around. His brain provides the running commentary of _demon, demon, demon, danger, demon, demon_. The knowledge, that he himself could be subjected to anything, really, by this man, this _demon_. Still, he could be happy to be alive for now, he knew.
> 
> *
> 
> "I said relax." Crowley tries to soften his voice, but the annoyance filters through. He hates being feared by the kids. Adam, Pepper, bless (ugh) their souls, never feared him, always were steadfast. Warlock only feared him once, but honestly, it was his own fault. Why he looked at Hardison and thought of him as another kid that he doesn’t want to scare, he didn’t know. 
> 
> *
> 
> _Relax_ , as if it was so easy. The fear still hadn’t really caught up though and Hardison looked around. There were blue and green splatters everywhere, and for a strange second, Hardison couldn’t reconcile that sight with what he knew of blood. Blood. Red. Iron. Pain.   
>  But what he saw was: Blue. Sky. Oxygen. Summer. Green. Earth. Carbon. Life.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley never was in the habit of explaining himself to others. Only to Downstairs, even though most of that was lies. Only to Aziraphale, and only ever half the truth (until a few short days, months, years — time was blurry, but it hadn’t been long — ago), because more than that could have destroyed more than the mutiny has salvaged.  
>  Crowley never was in the habit of explaining himself to others. And here, strangely, he found himself reluctant to do so, too. Despite watching the child in front of him grappling with its fear. He thought it was something this child would have to come to terms with, to understand, for itself.
> 
> *
> 
> Expectant eyes watched Hardison. It seemed misplaced on a demon, but he could see the underlying worry, the softness in Crowley’s eyes nonetheless. It was like looking into Nana’s eyes. Strict with them, but stricter _for_ them. It was disconcerting and calming at once. The colors still flickered through his brain, played tricks on his mind even though a single word was struggling to take hold in the emptiness surrounding the flaming fear. A single word. Blue. Green. Color, but not Red. Not blood. What was the word?  
>  Color, but not blood.  
>  _Paint_ , his brain finally supplied.  
>  "Oh", his mouth caught up.  
>  Looking around again showed the bullet holes in the flow hoods weren’t holes at all, were paint splatters instead. The faces of the gunmen were colored but no brain spattered, no violence beyond the paint and the pain of a paint ball to the face. No injury past a potential concussion and a bruising, and a calm, unconscious face beyond that.  
>  "Oh", he said again. "That is so handy."  
>  He looked at the weapons, splattered with paint residues, intrigued. Relieved, despite himself. They had talked about the No-Stabbing Wednesday Tradition (expanding it into No-Killing Weekday), and they had all been on the same page. If anything, Aziraphale had been much more reluctant to agree than Crowley.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley looked at Hardison with a smirk, feeling oddly proud (he should really stop adopting people left and right, even though, Aziraphale was probably just as quick to adopt this trio).

"To be clear. Crowley and I will make sure to destroy the facility. No vaccine is better than fake-vaccines. Less danger to the kids that way."

> And they did. They dragged out the (miraculously) light gunmen and CEO, bound to a chair, for the police to collect later.  
>  They dragged them out, they put them down. They called Parker.  
>  The only thing left to do, was destroy the facility.

"I don’t like the idea of destroying the facility. I get that we have to, but we’re not only destroying the evidence for the take-down, we destroy years of actual work that was done. We destroy someone else’s chance to properly use this."

> In fact, they don’t.

"Parker, we are the distraction. Everything hinges on you. We need the proper composition they use. And we need the proof in paper. Otherwise we can’t take them down for shit."  
Crowley’s voice was different from Hardison’s in accent and command but Parker felt herself nod along nonetheless.

> They did. They got in, they got the proof.
> 
> *
> 
> Aziraphale hated it. He could feel the corruption of this place. He vowed to do something about it. Even though, he supposed, it had to wait. They had priorities. Parker was taking charge, and he couldn’t help but follow suit, an odd proud feeling in his chest.
> 
> *
> 
> Parker hated places like this, but with all the proof they got, they would be able to do some good.
> 
> *
> 
> Eliot just wanted to punch something, or rather, someone.
> 
> *
> 
> Getting out wasn’t as easy. Even with clearance, they shouldn’t enter the CEO’s office.
> 
> *
> 
> Getting out wasn’t easy, because the CEO had been alarmed. Security had been alarmed. There had been an incident at the other facility. Why were people _here,_ tonight?
> 
> *
> 
> Getting out wasn’t easy. It should have been much more difficult, still. Aziraphale wasn’t in the habit of physical activity, anymore, especially not involving his fists. He’s had enough of death, war and blood.
> 
> *
> 
> Getting out wasn’t easy. But Eliot got to punch people, so he wasn’t complaining too much, either.
> 
> *
> 
> When worst came to worst, suddenly, Aziraphale was there. Between the trigger of a gun and Parker. Over 20 feet from Eliot.
> 
> *
> 
> Eliot’s heart ricochet. The gun shot sang in the air. It didn’t sound right. And yet, it did. Eliot could’t see the gun. The security guard standing with his back to Eliot. But Eliot could see Aziraphale’s eyes. Alight with righteous fire.  
>  The gun shot sounded wrong and yet so right.  
>  It was a very distinctive sound. From a very distinctive gun. Eliot had heard the sound of a Glock 19 being shot a total of 149 times (150 as of two seconds ago).   
>  He was accustomed to its reverberated sound, how it changed from open air to closed off space, confined rooms or wide fields. And yet, he had only heard this particular sound once.  
>  He remembers, clearly, because like today (as of five seconds ago), it was a close call. Too close, his brain supplies (but not as close as today, because back then it was _him_ , not Parker, in the line of the gun’s barrel).  
>  He remembers, clearly, because the sound had been wrong (and yet so right). Because he was accustomed to the pain, usually managed to break it into fractals, more an itch than an actual pain. All to keep function. He remembers, because, weirdly, the sound so wrong (and yet so right), he hasn’t felt an itch. No stumble back, from the force of the hit. No pain, no itch no nothing but the burn from his exhausted lungs. He remembers, the sound so wrong and yet so right because a second later, the blood started to bloom through the shooter’s white shirt.  
>  He remembers, clear as the crisp air of a spring morning, the first and only (not only anymore) time that a Glock 19 had misfired in his presence.
> 
> *
> 
> Parker didn’t believe in luck. But maybe there were miracles.
> 
> *
> 
> Eliot didn’t believe in luck, much like Parker. But he remembers. He remembers to have thought himself to maybe have a shred of luck, back then. And now, the gunman crumbling, leaving Eliot to stare at Parker, face poking over Aziraphale’s shoulder, that shred of luck seems too premeditated. Now, a crumbling gunman and a fierce looking angel standing between Eliot and Parker, Eliot thinks, maybe there are such things as miracles.
> 
> *
> 
> The fire in Aziraphale subsided. There was no regret. Parker had taken the lead, maybe he went overboard with following. But he was a proud man. And he held proudness in his heart for a few select people. Somehow, within the span of a day, those people included a fierce tiny woman, that loved climbing and badgered Crowley to take her for a fly, a loyal man with a dark history but a bright soul, and a geeky young man with a heart of gold, And Aziraphale would not stand by and let them be hurt.
> 
> *
> 
> Parker idly wondered if she misinterpreted the danger posed by Crowley and Aziraphale, respectively, because suddenly, Aziraphale seemed to be a lot more ruthless. She wasn’t about to complain. He just saved her ass, after all.
> 
> *
> 
> Eliot didn’t believe in luck, but maybe there were such things as miracles. He just hoped, they didn’t turn out to be deals or contracts. He hope they didn’t turn around to bite him in the back. Somehow, he didn’t believe they would.

"When you’re out of the office building, we’ll get to the destruction part."

> "What are you waiting for? We have five minutes", Hardison knew his voice was still a bit shaky.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley smirked. Parker knew, she was clever. He knew she knew. Hardison was clever, too, but much more easily distracted and led to believe a simple plan.
> 
> *
> 
> "Oh ye of little faith."  
>  Crowley’s smirk was disconcerting, and Hardison was tempted to take a step back.
> 
> *
> 
> The uncertainty in Hardison’s eyes made Crowley smirk even more.  
>  "Parker, if you tell me the good news, I will take you flying", Crowley said to the comm in his ear, happily.  
>  "You got it", the tinny voice came back. "Composition list: 5 micro mola-"
> 
> *
> 
> Hardison didn’t know what was going on anymore. They didn’t have time. He barely listened as Parker rattled down the components of the fake vaccine. This wasn’t the time, but somehow, both Crowley and Parker sounded way too relaxed. And Hardison did, what he told Parker he’d do. He trusted her.
> 
> *
> 
> When Parker was done listing all the components, Crowley compared it to the composition of the vaccine provided by another company. He couldn’t change the temperature to change the molecules in a child body, but he could force certain molecules to perform that task without thermodynamics. Small miracles could go a long way.  
>  He closed his eyes, concentrated on the building, on the fake-vaccines inside, on the lists currently jostled in Aziraphale’s hand, indicating all the children and adults that had been given the fake-vaccine, too.  
>  He tracked down the people, then the molecules inside them. Viruses were tricky, but he was clever, cunning, a devil in his own right. Chaos was what he represented. He could deal with viruses and their counteracting drugs.  
>  It was a nationwide miracle. He grasped every molecule in his figurative fist, twisting, turning, mulling. Heat emanated from the factory, but that was the only place where Crowley let the thermodynamics act out, follow its lawful path. The molecules snapped into their rightful places.  
>  It was over in seconds, and Crowley felt bone-deep exhaustion.
> 
> *
> 
> Crowley was suddenly keeling over. Hardison barely managed to hold onto him.  
>  "Babygirl, what happened? Crowley’s completely out of it."  
>  "We’re on our way", Aziraphale’s voice said, instead of Parker’s, and he sounded mildly out of breath.  
>  If Hardison hadn’t been so out of breath himself (because they still hadn’t left, and there still weren’t sirens and he had missed something, he _never_ missed anything), he’d have yelled at the sudden appearance of Aziraphale right in front of him, left hand clasped around Parker’s, right hand clasped around Eliot’s.
> 
> "Wicked", Parker yelled in awe (Aziraphale had mentioned his godsons’ saying that word, often, and Parker had adopted it in a heartbeat), "Hardison! I just _flew_!"
> 
> Hardison just blinked. He was tired. Today had been long. A bed sounded nice. He looked at Eliot, who looked slightly green.
> 
> *
> 
> Eliot shook himself, ignoring Hardison for now, taking one of the papers from Aziraphale and bending over to the CEO. He wished he could punch him awake. That flight thing was a lot less fun than he had expected. And he hadn’t it expected to be fun to begin with. He wasn’t Parker. He needed his feet on the ground to work properly.
> 
> A slap would do. So he slapped the CEO. A groan. Good, signaled wakefulness.
> 
> "Sign", Eliot stabbed a pen at the CEO and held the paper under his nose. 
> 
> He was glad for the lack of recognition, the lack of understanding that led to the asshole’s tired compliance. Without question, he took the pen and signed.
> 
> A mumbled "Wha-?" left his mouth before Eliot knocked him back into unconsciousness.
> 
> "That was all?" Aziraphale asked. He had taken hold of Crowley now, who leaned barely conscious against the angel. Parker had a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, the other one intertwined with Hardison’s.
> 
> At Eliot’s nod, Aziraphale said, "Good. I’ll be taking all of us home then." And he grasped Eliot’s shoulder before he could protest.
> 
> Darkness and nausea enveloped Eliot again. He hoped it would be the last time.

"We will leave the company to our client."

> And they did.

* * *

Hardison had never gotten so lost on a job. Never lost sight of the goal of their cons so completely. He supposed it had to do with their current — for lack of a better word — business partners.

His head didn’t really hurt but there was a knowledge gnawing on him that didn’t quite make it to the surface, when he woke up.

It took trudging to the kitchen, finding a sleep-drunk demon and a fretting angel, to gain some of the knowledge. Crowley had done something.  
He muttered his good mornings and took a bottle of orange soda from the fridge. A sugar boost wouldn’t hurt.

When Parker padded into the kitchen, pulling her ever-present cereal off the shelf, Hardison was awake enough to attempt the conversation. At least he hoped he was.

"What exactly did you do last night?"

Crowley looked like he wanted to be cryptical, but then seemed to decide against it. He looked at Parker for a moment, crunching on her dry cereal.

"I changed the composition of the fake-vaccine."

That sounded like chemistry to Hardison. That sounded like something Crowley couldn’t have done without a lab, much less standing still for a minute outside a factory complex. Crowley was a demon, but that still sounded like a lot of work to do without actually doing anything. And yet, Crowley had stumbled, a sudden dead weight.

"Meaning what exactly?", Hardison asked for clarification.

"That the fake-vaccine is now proper-vaccine."

"Huh." He contemplated that. It was probably easier to just accept, so he did that and plowed on to things he may have to work out, children that would have to be vaccinated again.

"To what extend?", he asked.

"Well, to the extend that every fake-vaccinated person is now properly immunized, that every dosage left in the facility is now proper-vaccine. That there is no backlash for any person wrongly treated", Crowley seemed a bit affronted to have to explain himself. Parker didn’t look surprised.

Hardison turned that over in his head, still tired.

So, Crowley really _had_ done something. Something big. Something that apparently had been part of the plan all along, something they had neglected to tell him.

Rude. Right in front of his orange soda.

* * *

Hardison had taken a particularly long shower, after finding out that particular information. Parker didn’t know how he hadn’t understood it before. Crowley had shown the same dedication as her. And, opposing to her, he actually had the ability to do something about it.

Parker decided, celebrations were in order. They had gotten the client all the papers to legally take over the pharmaceutical company. They had actually _corrected_ mistakes and saved children.  
This was worth celebration.

She had invited Aziraphale and Crowley to stay as long as they wanted, after a short talk with Eliot who agreed. They’d helped enough to not be treated as a danger to them, for the time being.

For dinner, Eliot had outdone himself. Steaks, asparagus, salad, mashed potatoes. A casserole, tart and pie. Burgers and spaghetti, but no cereal.

Somehow, conversation had rotated back to the CEO and his erroneous worldview.

Aziraphale shook his head and sighed. "It really is a shame the people believe this 'flat-earth' nonsense."

Eliot nodded, "Did you know, they even did scientific experiments to prove flat earth? I just feel like all that energy could be put too much better use. Like renewable energy."

"I’d curse all their experiments to fail if they weren’t failing anyways. Who gave them this idea in the first place? Wasn’t anyone I know downstairs. None of them is creative enough and it certainly wasn’t _me_ ," suddenly, Crowley shuddered, "By Hell, we can be so _glad_ that Book Girl did not give Adam ideas like that."

For reasons Parker didn’t understand, Aziraphale looked utterly horrified.

"Good Lord, that would have been messy. Makes Atlantis seem like a happy little incident."

* * *

"You’ve seen Atlantis?", Hardison asked curiously.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a pained look.

"Not really, but. We were involved in it’s discovery."  
Aziraphale phrased it delicately while he was nursing his tea.

Something tugged at at Hardison’s brain, a phrase he’s once read and he quietly said, " _I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea._ " 

Aziraphale gingerly placed his tea mug on the table then looked up to smile at Hardison. Full and genuine but with a still sharpness betraying the underlying power, "Fyodor Dostoevsky. He was a clever man. Made a lot of good points. Tea being one of them."

In that moment, Hardison decided not to pursuit thoughts of Atlantis or tea any further. An angel agreeing with someone talking about the world going to hell was not something Hardison felt comfortable thinking about. Instead he changed the topic (or so he thought).

"Do alien’s exist?"

Now, the demon just looked shifty and the angel grimaced. It was anything but comforting. Any further topic change was interrupted by Eliot’s gruff, "'course they do."

Hardison’s head swiveled around, eyes almost bugging out, staring at Eliot as he took a swig of the Brewpub’s classic (Hardison _knew_ Eliot liked it).

"What are you looking at?", Eliot asked, disgruntled.

Hardison merely raised an eyebrow, an expression mirrored by Crowley.

"I met…", Eliot muttered and took another sip from his beer, "aliens."

The last word was barely audible behind his bottle.

"I should’ve known", Hardison complained. He pointed an accusing finger at Eliot. "You knew too much about stars. _Drake’s equation._ When we stole the Close Encounter."

* * *

Eliot was going through the camera feed Hardison had recorded throughout the day, monitoring their latest target for conspicuous behavior and for more pressure points.

Parker was out with Aziraphale and Crowley for actual flying. Eliot’s skin crawled at the thought but somehow, he knew she was in good hands. He didn’t know when the threat became a perverted twist into something different, a new layer of protection for them. They’ve only known the non-British entities for a few days but Eliot could see the protective fierceness with which the angel and demon regarded both Hardison and Parker, and even himself.

"You knew about them."

It was a statement, even though Eliot felt it should be an accusation.

He stopped the recording and turned away from the screen. Hardison’s arms were crossed and he was leaning against the doorframe. It did _things_ for his shoulders and arms and Eliot wished he could stop thinking about it.

He sighed and turned back to the screen.

Ever aware of his surroundings, Eliot felt more than heard Hardison move closer until he was standing next to him, staring him down.  
There was no accusation in Hardison’s eyes that he didn’t tell them, didn’t protect them, like he should have. Maybe it was because Eliot had never liked to talk about his past.

"Sophie told me about them when we first set foot into London. She said we could help them, if they ever wanted help but should never ask for it ourselves. 'Don’t make deals’, she said. But she also told me Crowley was alright and she was close to trusting him, as much as a grifter trusted anyone.

"And … I encountered different ones before. They have very distinctive … features."  
He didn’t elaborate on how these features usually consisted of very grotesque facial aberrations or live animal hats. He could live without feeding the hacker’s nightmares any more. They had fodder enough to live off of.

"Yeah, but why haven’t you told us about them, man?"

"Really?", he stared at Hardison. "Tell me, you wouldn’t have run headfirst into trouble to find them, Hardison."

"Whaaa? I would never!", Hardison clutched his heart, feigning indignation.

Eliot snorted, "I don’t need to feed into your conspiracy theories."

(If anyone asked Hardison, he would insist the noise he made in that moment was a pained sputter of shock. If anyone questioned Eliot, well. He liked to make Hardison suffer but he’d never tell a soul of this. Except maybe Parker. And he’d probably tell her the truth. How Hardison had _squeaked._ Only to see her keel over with laughter in face of an even more indignant Hardison who would subsequently stump off with a pout. This would never happen, though.)

 _"Conspiracy theories?"_ , Hardison’s voice was about an octave above his usual timbre. "I’ll have you know that all of my so called 'conspiracy theories' are based on solid fact, supported by extremely legal files I never possessed and have never accessed because I never hacked into governmental systems and never will! And I won’t tell you about these files because they’re the typical boring legal documents and you’re not interested. Conspiracy theories. How’d you like me calling your food-knowledge fake-news?!"

With this tirade, Hardison turned around to leave the room. Eliot just smirked. That went over better than expected or deserved.

When Hardison reached the door, he turned around again.

"So hey", he said hesitantly, face serious. "You said your dad taught you that stew recipe a while ago."

He left the question hanging, unasked. Eliot nodded silently. He hadn’t told Hardison, because this whole relationship with his old man was still very fragile. He had only seen him three times since that talk with Hardison. And he hadn’t felt like sharing that, until today.

Hardison being who he was, closed the door and walked back to sit on the table and look at Eliot with all the patience in the world and Eliot’s heart ached.

"He showed me that recipe last year. It was my favorite dish as a kid. He’d always promised, he’d hand over the recipe when I’m graduating college." Eliot smiled grimly but he felt it turn soft after only a second.

"We haven’t been talking much and I only saw him three times. He wasn’t there, first time I knocked on his door but he called me a day later. When I went down there again, the week after, it was a bit stilted. He gave me the recipe anyway, before I left."

Eliot would never tell anyone that but he had actually cried a little bit over being given the recipe. Only in the safe confinement of his car, but still.

Whatever emotion Hardison saw on Eliot’s face, it prompted him to envelope him in a hug. And for once, Eliot didn’t deny him. There was no-one else around to watch them and he wanted to indulge himself.

There was something he still wanted to say. He didn’t know how to do it because it was feelings. He was Eliot Spencer, he didn’t _do_ feelings much like he didn’t do hospitals. Still, he had to try. Even if it felt like he was opening his heart up, making himself, Hardison and Parker too vulnerable.

"I want him to meet you guys. You’re important", he admitted softly, still embraced in Hardison’s arms. Hardison’s arms tightened for a moment, like he understood. He always did.

Eventually, Hardison let go but kept his hands on Eliot’s shoulders and searched his eyes.

"You’re important to us, too. We want to give you as much as you need, as much as you want."

* * *

Hardison’s head hit the bar and he groaned. 

"By god, that was the most difficult and exhausting client _ever_!"

He lifted his head to find Eliot grinning.

"Don’t blaspheme", Eliot chastised softly, pushing a beer into Hardison’s hand. Their hands touched and it sparked something in Hardison. A second later he shuddered, as a thought hit him. 

"I really can’t ever do that again, can I? Blaspheme. Use God’s name in vain. Or in bed. Oh my god. And oh _go- damn_ , I just did it again!"

His head hit the bar again. Eliot chuckled and Hardison swore to take revenge. Maybe mix orange soda in some of the various bottles with seasoning and dressing Eliot had lined on the shelves.

"Oh, hey", Hardison perked up again, something else coming to mind. He could’t help but grin mischievously, "Wanna see something cool?"

Eliot raised his eyebrows at him, "Your kind of cool or my kind of cool?"

"Age of the geek, baby!", Hardison cheered in answer and pulled his laptop closer.

Going through a couple of files in search he started explaining.

"You know, I didn’t find any new footage of Crowley and Zira, but I actually managed to get some older snapshots," he couldn’t help snort.

He knew he had Eliot’s interest when he felt the other push close, leaning over his shoulder. 

Hardison opened the pictures in glee. He turned his face to look at Eliot, where he leaned over his shoulder, face mere inches from his own, waiting for a reaction.

He wasn’t disappointed. Eliot laughed a full body laugh, his face lighting up with it.

"Tell me you’re gonna give that to Nate on their wedding anniversary."

"Of course, I will!"

From the screen, two pictures lit up Hardison and Eliot’s faces, and Hardison couldn’t help but smile back at the softness in Eliot’s face.

One picture stared blankly back at them, a mugshot of Crowley, badly inserted in an MI6 ID-card issued half a century ago.

The other picture was likely taken within the last few days. It was the view of a high-end party and showed a distraught Sophie Devereaux looking on helplessly, an unsuspecting Nate looking at her in concern, and Crowley, evil glint in his eyes and all, holding bunny ears over Nate’s head.

"I found another though, which I think we should give to Aziraphale and Crowley to _their_ wedding."

The photo he pulled up was old. 

Neither Eliot nor Hardison had any idea of the significance of that picture but they understood the softness in Crowley and Aziraphale’s eyes as they danced the gavotte together for the first and last time (until their wedding, anyway).


End file.
